


Cherry Vanilla

by Anonymous



Category: Fake News FPF
Genre: Community: punditkink, Fluff, M/M, Sex Toys, Summer, Swimming Pools, Trans Male Character, True Love, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: The flip side of <a href="http://newskink-meme.livejournal.com/709.html?thread=132805#t132805">this fic</a> (extended trigger warning at the source), Jon and trans!"Stephen" have hot, loving, cuddly, vanilla PIV sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Vanilla

Four shows down, one to go, and then Jon would be on the plane back to New York and ready to sleep in his own bed again. In the meantime he picked at the fruit plate someone had arranged to be waiting for him in the otherwise empty hotel room, then stretched out on top of the comfortor's earth-toned leaf-and-diamond pattern and pushed the bits of his phone screen that told it to call home.

Stephen picked up on the second ring. His voice was hoarse and strangely floaty. "Jon. Hey. How's things?"

"Not bad, I guess." Descriptions of the weather, the audiences, the bits of the city he'd noticed on the drive to the venue, how oddly quiet it still felt to be in a hotel on a hot evening and not have to speak up over the air conditioner, flickered through Jon's head and were tossed aside. Stephen wasn't interested in his attempts to fake small talk; he only demanded these calls because he wanted to know Jon missed him. "Are you feeling all right, there?"

"Fine. Fine," breathed Stephen. "Was just thinking about you."

Jon, whose hand had just crawled up under his shirt to scratch his stomach, jerked it back and reflexively tried to straighten his collar. "Really? Good things, I hope."

"Mmm." On the far end of the receiver, something sloshed. "The best."

It clicked. "Should I ask what you're wearing?"

"Pffft. 'S way too late for _that_ , Jon. I got naked ages ago. Me and my sandalwood and jasmine bath fragrance are _relaxing_ now."

Of course he was. He'd have dark hair plastered messily to his forehead, elbows slung over the edge of the tub to keep him from slipping languidly under the surface, water up to his collarbones and steam dripping down the tiles all around him. The phone would be on speaker in the tower next to the shampoo, or maybe in the basket with his rainbow huddle of moisturizers and skin creams. He'd have the curtain half-drawn, enclosing him in a wash of springy sea-foam light.

And there was probably a puddle all over the floor, dammit.

"You could always do the gentlemanly thing and fake it," said Jon, thumb hovering over the touchscreen's icons trying to remember which would put him on speaker, free hand palming hopefully at his pants. "Make like a rerun and go over the scenes I missed."

Stephen tsked at him. "As if I want to talk you through your long-distance hard-on. No. I want you to bring that thing home and _fuck me_ with it."

In another mood, Jon might have asked just how long Stephen thought his refractory period was these days, anyway. "Believe me, babe, if I were any less of a professional I'd be on the next flight."

"Wow, Jon. I did not realize you were that much of a pussy hound."

Jon nearly choked on his tongue.

He had taken for granted that the plan was to go the rest of his life without vagina. That was part of the package (so to speak) when you fell for a guy. Even a guy whose various procedures for masculinizing his body hadn't yet made it physically impossible.

"I, uh," he said, trying to sound neutral, not discouraging, not too eager. "I did not realize that was on offer."

"Yeah, me neither," said Stephen. Like he'd stumbled upon nothing more interesting than an unexpected taste for sushi. "But lately I started thinking. What if that was just because of everything else being hooked up wrong? What if, now that I am mostly comfortable with my amazingly studly body, I could let a certain sweet blue-eyed man top me in the santorum-free way and enjoy it?"

And what if he couldn't? How many different ways could this go wrong? "Stephen, I...I don't know if I want to be your guinea pig for this...."

"Didn't think so." God, he could practically hear Stephen's smirk through the satellites. "That's why I tried it out with Faramir first."

Jon had long ago gotten used to the names Stephen gave his sex toys. (Aragorn was the largest, Frodo the smallest, and Faramir close to Jon's size, though not quite.) "You...you what? _When?_ "

More sloshing. Followed by a loud and steady buzz.

Jon muttered several colorful curses, probably to be lost on Stephen's end in the vibrator's hum. 

 

***

 

As the car turned into the driveway, Jon spotted a purple wizard hat hanging on the hedge gate. (The hedges themselves were still plain and square, in spite of Stephen's ongoing campaign for Jon to let them get sculpted into a customized Mouth Rushmore.) He got out of the car halfway up the drive, gave the chauffer an extra tip for the favor of hauling his bags inside, and made a beeline for the concealed pool.

Sure enough, on the other side of the hedgerows Stephen was enjoying the pool: flat on his back on the inflatable chair, bobbing on the cyan-clear surface. The sun was finally adding some bronze undertones to his skin, without making the thin scars under his pecs stand out, at least not that Jon could see. His hair formed a relatively normal silhouette, so either he hadn't gone swimming yet or he'd fixed it up before letting it dry.

Also, he wasn't packing. Jon didn't notice at first, and then he realized Stephen's Yoda bathing suit was riding a little flatter than usual, and couldn't, as the kids said these days, unsee it.

Stephen shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted through the sunlight at Jon. "Oh, there you are. You know what we should get? A sexy pool boy."

Jon snorted. "What, you don't just want me to take off my shirt and mop the tiles for a while?" It was hot enough that the shirt was coming off anyway, followed by his shoes, to be tossed on and kicked under one of the poolside chairs.

"Don't be ridiculous, Jon. If you're doing the mopping, who will sit next to me and gossip with me over the pool boy's abs?" Stephen raised his eyebrows; Jon had moved on to shucking off his shorts. "Although I'm guessing you wouldn't strip like this in front of an employee, which is, I must admit, a strong argument for dropping the idea."

"I'm not--! I just want to cool off without having to go change first." In plain black boxers he settled on the edge of the pool, letting his calves swish through the chlorinated water. "It's broiling out here, in case you hadn't noticed. And no, before you ask, it's not just you."

Stephen pouted. "It's probably a _little_ me, though."

Jon opened his mouth to fire back a joke, then sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Probably."

The water lapped at the blue-and-white tiles; a vent creaked next to Jon's leg. A cloud swept one of its edges across the sun, leaving the palette of the world less gold with heat and the shadows less sharply dark. In the distance, a couple of seagulls yelled at each other.

"About what you said on the phone," Jon began.

"Mmhmm?"

Where to begin? "Is...is the offer still open?"

"Not right here, it isn't," said Stephen reasonably. "You never know when Google Maps might be watching. Besides, I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to get chlorine in it."

Jon tried to remember the last time he'd seen Stephen be so matter-of-fact about something that wasn't completely absurd. The results were not encouraging. "Would I, uh, would I be your first? Not counting, you know, Faramir."

"Does it matter? I'm here now. With you. Who cares what I did freshman year in André Shapiro's back seat?"

"Babe, you get that I'm not asking because I'm looking for something to be jealous about, right?"

Stephen folded his hands over his stomach, long fingers steepling together. "Maybe you _should_ be jealous. He was sweet. Had great hair. Secretly gay, unless he just used really froufy shampoo for a straight guy, but I was secretly a guy so you'd think it should have worked out, right? And he backed me up that time I got thrown out of stats for shouting at the teacher over how my gut was clearly superior to linear regression."

"Sounds like I should be thanking this guy," countered Jon. "If he's the one who gave you a taste for nice Jewish boys with a tendency to back you up even when they maybe shouldn't."

"Keep talking like that, and I'll make you sleep in the guest room tonight."

"Who says I have to be in the guest room? Maybe you should be the one in the guest room."

"Hey!" snapped Stephen. "Which of us has the vagina, here?"

"You, sir," said Jon meekly.

"That's better." With scooped hands Stephen began paddling at the water, inching his blow-up chair toward the pool's edge. "And we are going to go right inside and drive that point home, just as soon...as I...give me a minute, here...."

"Hold out your hand," offered Jon. "Or your foot, or something. I'll pull you in."

Ignoring him, Stephen kept right up with his industrious hand-paddling. A few feet from the edge he finally stretched forth one arm, bony knuckles flexing as his fingers tried to hook Jon's.

Their hands clasped; Stephen yanked; the flat tube of air beneath him crooked at a spontaneous joint, and he toppled into the deep end with a splash.

"Jon!" he wailed, flailing the last step or two and clinging to Jon's calves, never mind that even here in the deep end he could stand on the bottom and be head and shoulders above water. "Jon, that wasn't fair! Now you have to come in too, so I'm not the only one ruining his hair."

"But I'm not even wearing a suit, and you...." Stephen opened his eyes a fraction of an inch wider, irises hard and drilling through Jon's sensible points about bringing these things on yourself. "Oh, fine. I guess these are gonna come off in a minute anyway. Scoot."

Once given the room, he pushed off from the cement and slid into the water, shockingly cold from kneecaps to neck; his boxers went sluggish and leaden, sticking to his thighs and butt. Stephen barely waited until his toes had reached tile before gripping his shoulders and giving him a light, hopeful kiss. When Jon responded in kind, Stephen leaned harder and brought up his legs to encircle Jon's waist, letting the water buoy him up so that he was no trouble for Jon to lift.

"Yeah, definitely not doing this here," said Jon, as Stephen's hips bumped languidly into his, trunks billowing around his hands in a cloud of polyester. "Unless your reaction to Faramir was 'hmm, needs more shrinkage.'" It occurred to him, too late, that this might not be the most sensitive complaint to make. "Uh...sorry, I didn't mean...."

"You shush." Stephen cut him off with another kiss, nipping at his bottom lip. "For a lefty intellectual you are really bad at logic sometimes. Considering what I had to start with, I am _huge_."

 

***

 

Jon slung his sopping boxers over the bar of the shower, took a hit of mouthwash, and out of habit folded one of the navy-blue towels monogrammed with Stephen's initials around his waist before emerging into the master bedroom.

Stephen was waiting for him on the bed, sitting up with arms resting across his knees, swim trunks abandoned to reveal the full spectrum of tan lines underneath. In spite of the lingering chill, Jon's dick perked up at the image. "Hey, sweetheat. I'm gonna need a minute to rev up here, but believe me, it's not because you are anything less than gorgeous."

"Of course not," said Stephen, though with a touch less vim and vigor than he'd had minutes earlier. There was something in his hands, shielded by the cage of his bent legs. "Um. Since you don't have anything else to do right now...do you think...?"

"Anything. Just tell me what you need."

Stephen swallowed. "I still need to be lubed up and that's not about you it's a manly testosterone side effect thing and you could just eat me out but I don't know how I feel about having your face down there so maybe you could do it with your hands? Maybe? Or I could do it. If you'd rather watch."

Jon leaned one knee on the mattress, using every inch of height advantage the posture gave him over Stephen (which waes about an inch). "Stephen...." His voice slipped without effort into the Serious Newsman, the Mike Wallace pitch of authority. "Do you want me...to touch you?"

The moan that escaped Stephen's throat was barely human.

He let Jon press adoring kisses to the corners of his mouth, to the bridge of his nose, to the ruddy curves of his cheeks. Every press of skin against skin made Stephen writhe a little more, breathe a little less.

Jon's hands molded themselves to his kneecaps: for support, at least until his right hand slid down Stephen's nearer thigh, chlorine-fresh but sun-warm again in spite of its brief dunking. Stephen scrabbled briefly for lapels or a shirt front to cling to. Finding none, he let his legs fall apart, rocked forward, and grabbed Jon under the shoulders to hoist him into position.

"I'm here." Jon clambered obediently the way Stephen was yanking him, the lube knocking against his back muscles, his towel slipping until it was tugged away altogether. "Show me what you want, babe. I'm right here. I'm ready."

Somehow, he didn't catch how, a slick hand ended up clasping his. He let it guide him, giving Stephen's jaw one more kiss before cuddling up to the crook of his neck and turning his gaze downward.

With Stephen's legs spread so wide, the palm of Jon's hand cupped neatly over the soft mound of Stephen's sex, heel butting up against the base of Stephen's erection. He ground his hand subtly upward, feeling the way it made Stephen's heart pound in his chest and his leg tremble against Jon's torso, then squeezed, fingers together, working the lubricant over the thick wiry curls and the first layer of tender flesh underneath.

"'S good," panted Stephen. "That...it's good. Oh...oh, Jon. Do...."

He plied Jon's fingers with his own until they delved deeper, parting his outer lips and fondling the rougher, more flushed ones they concealed. Stephen shivered almost hard enough to fall over.

"Easy, Stephen. If it's too much...."

"Jon so help me if you cut and run now I will take your autographed Mets baseball and give it to Gipper to chew on."

"Touchy, touchy," said Jon, and with middle and index fingers breached him.

Stephen's inner walls were already wet, hot and slippery and vital as they clenched around Jon's fingers. Jon pulled out anyway, just long enough to thumb some of the excess lubricant from Stephen's hand to his, before sliding back in. His own dick had suddenly gone achingly iron-hard, and the intensity of focus almost blotted out his hearing; it was through a wash of static that his ears fought to tune in Stephen's next words: "...an angle, there's...turn and aim right...no, like...yes right _there_ that's it!"

Dazed, caressing the fine seam of flesh with the pad of his finger, Jon offered, "I think the word you want is 'G-spot'."

Perfectly manicured nails dug crescent slices into his shoulder. "I think the word I want is _yes Stephen I can angle my penis to hit that_."

"I think that's...." As if he had any hope of counting right now. "...a lot more than one word."

"I think you should pull out now so my next move doesn't snap your wrist."

Jon couldn't piece together what that was supposed to mean, but he caught _pull out_ and _something about wrist violence which means he's serious_ , and left shining streaks across the tan line on Stephen's inner thigh as he withdrew.

Sure enough, in the next moment Stephen's pelvis rocked fiercely forward, twisting the rest of him with it. He plastered himself to Jon's chest, going for another kiss as the motion pushed Jon back to sit on his heels; his hips shimmied up to Jon's, all but straddling Jon's lap. His erection bumped up against Jon's like a small friendly dog greeting a larger one. If the larger dog were sitting on another fatter dog. And if it had had...uh...its ears or something removed when it was eight days old?

"Jon." Stephen jabbed one of his ribs with piano-player accuracy. "Whatever you're thinking about, stop it. Your eyes are glazing over in the non-sexy way."

Jon had the grace to blush. "Sorry. Got lost in a metaphor for a second there."

"That's why you should always leave rhetorical techniques to the experts," said Stephen wisely. "All _your_ pretty little head needs to be worried about right now is angles."

"Right. Of course." At some point in there Jon's hands had ended up on Stephen's butt; he gave it a reassuring squeeze. "How are we--? I mean, do you want to be on top, or....?"

"Oh, no." Stephen swiveled his hips; Jon's brain nearly shorted out. "No no no no no. We are doing this _right_ , Jon. We are having the straightest gay sex possible. We're going as vanilla as my ethnic background. We are getting _missionary_ all up in this bed."

His lips were back on Jon's as they settled onto the sheets -- upside-down, their feet aimed at the headboard, but Jon didn't care and he wasn't sure Stephen had noticed. Trying to kneel between Stephen's spread legs while keeping his tongue busy in Stephen's mouth was a strain on Jon's spine, and it took a lot of craning of Stephen's neck to manage it. Once down on hands and knees, Jon had a feeling he wasn't getting up for a while.

Stephen's still-slick hand got in between them, wrapping around his erection, and now Stephen's skin was surprisingly cool against Jon's flushed heat.

"Should we be using a condom?" blurted Jon at the last second.

Stephen favored him with the kind of look usually reserved for particularly dimwitted kittens. "Jon. Do you think I'm _ovulating?_ "

"Yeah, okay, that was dumb," said Jon, and thrust into him.

The squeak Stephen let out was ambiguous enough to urge Jon slow and shallow. "Mm. That's, oh. Ahh," he added, more encouragingly. "That's...different, ah. Oh, Jon...."

"Tell me." Jon kissed the dip at the center of his chest, the hollow between his collarbones. "Tell me how it's different."

Bright stars hovered in Stephen's eyes. "Good," he clarified, cupping the back of Jon's head and holding him shakily in place. "Different good."

His inner walls clenched around Jon, unused to the intrusion but warm and wet and trying to stretch. Jon kept his hips slow -- perfectly, agonizingly slow -- while Stephen's own hips shifted and rolled, dragging his dick against Jon's stomach, until they found the angle that made Stephen's breath catch and his lashes flutter.

"Love you stupid sometimes," breathed Jon, reveling in the sensation.

Stephen huffed, fingers trembling and twitching against Jon's neck. "Love you _always_ , stupid."

The flush that spread from his neck to the roots of his hair as he said it took what was left of Jon's breath away.

It was Jon who came first, in spite of his best efforts. Stephen hooked one leg over his back to keep him down, then worked a hand between their bodies and brought himself off the rest of the way with Jon still inside him.

Jon tried to collapse to the side, neither crushing Stephen nor wrenching any of his entwined limbs in the process. It was second nature by now to end up on the side of Stephen's good ear. Stephen tried to roll with him; staying in sync like this wasn't second nature for either man, and Stephen's mouth made a soft O when Jon slipped softly out into the room's cool air. His hand dipped below his dick to cup his pussy, fingers slightly open, either to guard it or to make sure it was still there.

Still high on the afterglow, Jon retained the presence of mind to rest his hand on Stephen's waist, well above his hips: a span of flesh that had always been safe. He shuffled through a dozen possible things to say, settling on, "I...you're...it's good to be home."

Stephen curled gratefully against Jon's chest. "Don't worry," he said, in answer to Jon's unvoiced concern. "You were better than André Shapiro."


End file.
